


True as Steel

by daughterofmuses



Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hendricks POV, M/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofmuses/pseuds/daughterofmuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcone gets hit with a fuck or die, and dying's not on the cards while Hendricks still breathes. Friendship fic.</p>
<p>This story features <b>dubious/non consent</b> (fuck or die dilemma) and <b>canon-typical violence</b> and was originally posted on Dreamwidth under the same title, for a <a href="http://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/2675.html?thread=2862963#cmt2862963">Dresden Files kinkmeme prompt</a>.</p>
<p>The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True as Steel

Even Hendricks knew that it wasn't really his job to be faster than the speed of sound, or omniscient or well, whatever it is you would have had to be to somehow get out in front of the attack. But in another way, a completely unwritten and all-the-more-true-for-it sense, it was indeed his job to feel humiliated at his failure. Hendricks would do that later. Right now, in the split second after his eyes narrow in surprise, the rest of him moved. John Marcone did not stop, wide-eyed, in the middle of a sidewalk, half-way between his car and his house, like he'd had a bolt out of the blue, _unless he'd had a bolt out of the blue_.

Hendricks hustled Jo -- _the boss_ \-- inside, before either of them had time to think. His eyes scanned the room in front of them, but it was clear. "Boss?" he murmured as he secured the door behind them. 

"Mr. Hendricks," the boss said, almost a purr, like he was -- drunk.

Hendricks turned. "Boss?" he repeated, hoping for a verbal elaboration to match the visual. John Marcone stood in the front foyer of one of his front houses, a tiny dart in his hand, a tiny dot of blood welling just above his collar. Hendricks' heart sped up. That could not possibly be good. Hendricks reached for it, and thought better of it before his fingers touched it. He took it from the boss' outstretched fingers with a handkerchief instead. Marcone, his hands freed, started loosening his tie, never taking his eyes off Hendricks. 

Hendricks thought it wise to do the same, and as his hand drew his phone from his pocket, he noted that the boss' pupils were blown wide like he was higher than a kite. He glanced away no longer than necessary to identify Gard's number and place the call. The boss was slipping his jacket when Hendricks looked back. 

"Gard here," she said as she picked up. No threats, no whining, no its-my-day-off.

"Hendricks. I need you at the townhouse," he said. "Asap. Something got the drop on the protectee as we arrived. Two-three minutes ago. No idea who, no further contact. I'm holding a dart of some kind, maybe a third of an inch long, looks like a thorn. Little white petal at one end. Drop of blood on the other, probably the protectee's."

"Don't let skin come in contact with it," Gard confirmed. "The protectee removed it?"

"Yes." 

Gard sighed. "Any changes in behavior?"

"He's acting drunk. High. Like someone roofied him."

"Someone did," Gard said grimly. "I'll be there as soon as I can." He didn't doubt that she'd been moving from the moment he'd given her their location. 

"Anything I should do?" Hendricks said.

"Anything he wants," she told him coolly. "If you plan on keeping him alive. It's a curse, fuck or die, and it's going to take me a while to get to you."

Yeah. Hendricks had been hoping that was not what was going on. "'Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound'," he sighed.

Gard snorted. "Check the house first. He should keep that long, and it's entirely possible this is a distraction." Though it wouldn't have to be. Off hand, Hendricks could think of three other potential reasons for the attack: kill Marcone; destroy the relationship between Chicago's mob boss and his lieutenant; fairy entertainment at the expense of the Freeholding Lord. "Call me if the situation deteriorates." She ended the call. 

"Isn't that inevitable?" he asked rhetorically, watching as the boss gave up fumbling with his buttons, and produced a knife. "Gimme that," he said finally, holding out his hand, but the boss was never at his most reasonable with a weapon in hand. "Johnny, please."

Heavy-lidded eyes snapped back to meet his own. "It needs to come off," Johnny said, barely a trace of whine in it.

"Okay," Hendricks agreed readily. "But first we gotta make sure the house is secure. Put your shoes back on." Hendricks gave a silent thank-you to heaven when Johnny did as he was told on both counts. 

No way they were splitting up; fortunately, Hendricks didn't have to haul Johnny around the house; he came willingly enough. 

That should perhaps have been a clue.

It was a small house, and the last stop on the check was the master bedroom, and that's when Hendricks heard the soft _snick_ of a switchblade behind him. Hendricks turned, and Johnny's clothes were no longer the target.

And no. This was going to be enough like rape without an actual rape. Johnny stepped up into his space, all wound tension and loose confidence, and Hendricks put him into the wall; Johnny's grip on the knife was a solid as Hendricks' grip on Johnny. "No. Johnny. We are going to get out of this alive, and we are going to get out of this able to live with ourselves." Hendricks wasn't entirely sure how he was going to pull that last part off, but after all this time, he took it as an article of faith. "So. Drop the knife."

Mulishly, Johnny's knuckles went white around the handle. Hendricks raised his eyes to his friend's. "Johnny," he said seriously. "I will do this with you. But you gotta drop the knife." Hendricks had no doubt his friend could fight dirty, but on Johnny's best day Hendricks would have had the advantage in any fight between them, and needless to say, this was not that day. 

No, this was the day John Marcone would be -- no mincing words, not now, not looking into his friend's eyes -- raped. Maybe not the violent rape he himself was a half-inch from committing, but it was rape nonetheless. He couldn't consent in this state, though Hendricks was pretty sure that, had he been asked, from a purely theoretical point of view, from behind the veil of ignorance, whether he'd prefer 'fuck' or 'die' that Johnny would have picked, with eloquent distaste, 'fuck'. But they'd never had that conversation, and Hendricks had to admit, had the dart been in the other neck, he wasn't entirely certain he himself wouldn't prefer 'die'. 

That said, Hendricks was a lot more comfortable with the thought of his own death than Johnny's. And yeah, part of that was that Hendricks was his bodyguard, and maybe that meant that Hendricks should be glad he was only giving up his tail, not his life. And maybe he'd even say that later, if he had to. Maybe even tell himself that, later, if it came to that. But here and now, it was just as well to know why he was willing to go through with it. He wasn't going to let Johnny die, not when he could do something about it. The rest was all just details.

"Johnny, please," Hendricks said, not looking away. "This is going to be ugly enough. Please, man. Drop the -- "

Before the words had fully left his mouth, Johnny'd just opened his hand wide, wide as his eyes had gone, and let the knife fall. Far more gently, Hendricks let go of Johnny, who sank to the floor. Hendricks squatted carefully, and Johnny curled in on himself. "Knock me out. Tie me to the bed. And get the hell out of here," he ordered, voice thick with tension, and never making eye contact.

"No," Hendricks said quietly. "Gard thinks you'll die if I do." _And whatever about Sicilians, there's no arguing with Valkyries when death is on the line_. 

"No," Johnny said firmly. "Even if I don't -- rape," he said, forcing the word out, "you, it's still rape. You can't consent to this."

Hendricks shrugged. He added laconically, "Gotta contract says I did."

"'Any other duties as assigned' covers the order I just gave you. Not. Not this."

"No, Johnny," Hendricks said. "The bit further up. You know, the legalese about me being your bodyguard? The not-on-my-watch stuff? That's the section to which I'm referring."

Johnny looked tiny curled in on himself on the floor, his fist white-knuckled, and for a long moment, silence reigned. "It's still rape," Johnny said, meeting Hendricks' eyes finally.

"Yeah," Hendricks agreed. "And I'm sorry about that, Johnny." 

"I can't. Much longer," Johnny growled.

"I'd guessed," Hendricks told him. "Come on. Shuck your clothes. I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be fighting this." 

"Cut them off," Johnny said, and Hendricks caught a trace of bitterness. So they'd be burning them later. Yeah. Hendricks could see that. Still, he picked the buttons open gently. 

"Come on," Hendricks said again, once the shirt was open, and offering Johnny his hand, he rose. Johnny came with, and slid his shirt down his arms without further prompting, looking puzzled as it tangled on his holster. Okay. So they were back to that. 

Hendricks helped Johnny out of the holster and shirt, and watched as he continued to strip. It didn't seem safe not to. It might have been funny, watching Johnny just flinging clothes aside, had the situation been less sad. Still, for a minute or so, he could pretend Johnny had just gotten stupidly drunk, though it had been years and years since either of them could take that risk, and now he was helping his old friend to bed. That Johnny'd wake tomorrow with no more regrets than a hangover could serve up. 

All too soon, however, Johnny lost his pants, and Hendricks lost his illusions. Hendricks had seen guys naked before, plenty of times. He'd even looked with curiosity on occasion. But he'd never looked with intent before, and holy shit, John Marcone was rock hard, and frankly, a lot bigger than Hendricks was comfortable with. Then again, Hendricks' preferred penis size on his partner was measured in an entirely different chromosomal array. 

Looking away only snapped Hendricks' gaze back to Johnny's, and Jesus, Johnny looked hungry. One more second, maybe, til Johnny jumped him, his instincts told him. "Got anything we can use as lube?" Hendricks asked, for the first time in his life. 

"Bedside table," Johnny said, his eyes never leaving Hendricks'. 

"Get on the bed," Hendricks sighed. 

Johnny was pleased to comply, watching as Hendricks rummaged through the drawer. Phone charger. Spare ammo. Notebook and pens. Astroglide and condoms. Right.

_Quit stalling_ , he told himself firmly, and drew them from the drawer, dropping them on the next to Johnny. He debated just dropping his trousers, too, but that would underscore how reluctant he'd been, when Johnny reviewed the memories later, and God knew how Johnny could hold grudge against himself. He stripped himself quickly before he could change his mind, and set his boots so he could slip into them if something came through the door, and put a gun down next to them. 

"Okay," he breathed, and lay down on the bed, face down. Instantly, Johnny turned toward him, and stroked a hand down his side. Hendricks forced himself to stillness.

"I'll make it good for you," Johnny purred above him. 

A half-dozen replies flew through his brain, from _yeah, I'd rather you didn't_ to _if you could make it not hurt too much that would be plenty_ , but by dint of long practice, they didn't make it past his lips. "You do that, Johnny," he said softly, still thinking of tomorrow, and minimizing their regrets. Johnny probably could do it, too. His tastes ran both ways, after all, and Johnny didn't like to be second best at anything if he could help it.

Johnny could move fast, even in this state, it had to be said; the words had barely passed Hendricks' lips when Johnny had moved -- slid? Leapt? Between Hendricks' thighs, all but kicking them apart. _'Masters, spread yourselves'_ popped unbidden into Hendricks' head and he snorted into the pillow below him. He breathed deep and tried to relax, but that was not easy with Johnny moving around behind him. He heard the _click_ of the lube, and tensed before Johnny's fingers even reached his asshole. 

Gently, Johnny circled his finger, and Hendricks managed -- again, by dint of long practice -- to relax. Johnny slipped the finger inside, and Hendricks breathed deep. Hendricks tried for less than a half-second to imagine that this was nothing more than a digital rectal exam, only to discover that yes, actually, imagining it was Dr. Schulman behind him somehow was worse. Eh. Probably didn't help that he associated fingers in his ass with internal injuries. 

"Breathe," Johnny murmured above him, and Hendricks let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Not sure we have time for this, Johnny," Hendricks said. How long did they have, really? Neither of them had any way of knowing. Hendricks could only hope the spell would hurry Johnny along if it came to it. Still. Johnny'd been wound pretty tight only a few minutes into the spell. Slowing down now seemed a stupid risk. 

"'Proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance,' Mr. Hendricks," Johnny said, sounding almost normal as he did. 

It almost certainly wasn't meant as a reproof, a reference, however oblique, to Hendricks' failure to anticipate and prevent this attack, but yeah. Lying face down with a finger up his ass, waiting to feel the further breech of a dick, all because he fucked up? See under: _swords, falling on_.

A second finger slid in, without warning, long and slim, and twisted. Hendricks heard himself gasp as the fingers brushed against the fabled prostate, which he had always assumed he'd die before having to worry about. Johnny hummed above him. "Move it along, _Mr. Marcone_ ," Hendricks grunted. 

Johnny laughed, then. That at least was nice. Then Hendricks felt the fingers slip from within him, like a warning. "On your knees," he heard Johnny say, and he got on his hands and knees without further encouragement. He heard the rip of the condom wrapper, and forced himself not to react. The click, once more, of the lube, and kept his place. Despite his bravado, he was not really ready for it when he felt the head of Johnny's dick brush against his hole, and all thought fled on a jangle of nerves as the dick. pushed. in. 

It felt at least twice the size it had looked, and it _hurt_. Hendricks was admittedly very familiar with pain, but not one so fucking _personal_.

"Sshh," he heard above him, and it dawned on him slowly that Johnny had gone almost entirely still; the only part of him moving was his hand, ghosting down Hendricks' back. "Breathe, Nathan," Johnny said softly, Hendricks' name barely a breath of his own. It was beyond rare to hear it, and from Johnny's lips? But all the distance they put between themselves, the protections, well. It didn't change facts, and the fact was that Hendricks would do this. Would do a lot more to keep Johnny safe and half way to sane, and they both knew it, even if there was some recursively unspoken rule about never saying so. 

Still, Hendricks nearly jumped out of his skin when Johnny touched his dick. He resisted the urge to slap the hand away. For a man to whom murder was merely a matter of adequate planning, he did Catholic guilt like no one else about shit he had no control over. And yeah. If that didn't tell you everything you needed to know about living in Johnny's head… 

His dick responding to the gentle pressure on it pulled him from his thoughts, and he sighed. Letting Johnny get him off seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances, especially given the 'and half way to sane' clause. He sighed again, and Johnny apparently took this, along with the dick-hardening-as-dicks-do as a sign Hendricks was getting into it, because he started thrusting again.

It… wasn't quite so bad this time. The burn-stretch was on the edge of pleasure, and would probably have been great if Hendricks had been into it. The hand -- well, a hand's a hand. That was okay. The slap of Johnny's balls against his own, however, Hendricks could really have done without, though he couldn't guess if it was the reminder of his partner's gender, his partner's identity, or the fact that it felt like a crude display of dominance that left him feeling sort of skeevy. 

"Johnny," he gasped, surprised at the sound of his voice, but that was okay. "Could we hurry this up?" The _for both our sakes_ went unsaid. If Johnny wanted to assume it was because he wanted it faster that could only be to his advantage. 

Johnny laughed, rich and low, and even given the circumstances, Hendricks smiled to hear it, even as the strokes -- and subsequent ball swing -- increased. "If you can still form sentences, I'm obviously doing this wrong," Johnny said, his voice ragged. A twist of the hips, and suddenly, yeah. Prostate again. That was distracting in a good way. 

Good enough that Hendricks got off on it, to his utter astonishment. 

Johnny came tumbling after. 

And then Johnny pulled out like he'd been electrocuted, barely stumbling off the bed before he passed out. 

"I'm parking the car," Gard told Hendricks as soon as the call connected, and hung up again. 

He dropped a blanket on the boss, stuck his feet into his boots and wrapped a sheet around himself. It was as far as he got before Gard pushed open the bedroom door. She took in the tableau with one sweep of her eyes. They did not linger, as they sometimes did, and Hendricks breathed a silent sigh of relief. 

"The danger has passed with the curse. He is simply resting now," she said, and hefted the boss like he weighed less than her ax, though she placed him on the bed with care. 

It took a moment before Hendricks remembered he could dress again; he grabbed his things and left the room. He made his way to the upstairs bathroom, where he briefly contemplated a shower before deciding that showering would likely just reinforce the feeling of being filthy, and simply dressed. 

Gard was waiting outside the boss' room when he returned. 

"He would pick life, were he asked. You know this," Gard told him seriously as he drew along side her.

Hendricks nodded, back to the wall and eyes forward, avoiding her gaze. "And because of that, he's going to assume that _he_ raped _me_."

"No," she said. "He'll assume that because of his need for control. Though he may use it as an excuse."

Hendricks heard more than he felt his head thump off the wall behind him. Yeah. That sounded like Jo -- the boss. 

"You realize," Gard said gently, "that though you made a choice, it was not a free one? That in such a circumstance you could not truly give your consent anymore than he could?"

_Gotta contract says I did_ was on his lips once more, but something made him answer honestly. "Yeah," Hendricks said. "I know that. But that part was okay. I mean. Not what I wanted. But probably no worse than I'd feel if I was pushed to turning tricks. He didn't hurt me." He considered his answer. "And. You know. He tried to make it good."

"Above and beyond the call of duty?" Gard snorted. 

Hendricks cracked a smile. Gard, when he checked, had not. It might have been the furthest he'd gone for Johnny, by some reckonings at any rate, but it wasn't the furthest he'd be willing to go. Not if came right down to it. No. Sometimes Hendricks had an awful feeling that _to the gates of Hell_ was not going to remain hyperbole forever. But that didn't matter today. "Maybe more like, 'what is done out of love takes place beyond good and evil'." 

Gard surprised him by grasping his hand, and squeezing once. "You are a good man, Nathan Hendricks," she said as she let go, her voice taking on the oddly intense aspect it held at times. "A rare friend."

Silence passed between them for a while. Gard could keep a stiller, more silent vigil than anyone Hendricks had ever known, but he felt even more restless than usual. Uncomfortable. _Sore_. He shifted his weight subtly.

"He may not remember," Gard said suddenly. "The curse takes some people like that."

"Not sure that would be better," Hendricks said. "Probably assume it was worse than it was."

Gard fell silent again. 

"Do we know the origin?" Hendricks asked. "Looked like fairy magic."

"It's a fairy curse," Gard agreed. "But that doesn't mean it was cast by one of them. A mortal practitioner could do it with relative ease. Even the ingredients aren't difficult to come by."

"Great," Hendricks grunted. "So practically anyone could do it."

"If they'd tricked him into pricking his finger on it, maybe. But they managed to fire it at him. Hit him in the neck with it. That suggests skill and planning." There was a pause, and her thoughtful tone turned harsh. "Never fear. I will find our attacker. And they will pay."

Oh, Hendricks had no doubt about either part. The attacker'd do well to hope Gard found them before the boss did. She'd at least make it quick. Hendricks didn't dwell on it. "The boss. When'll he wake up?"

She shrugged. "The first rush of unconsciousness? An hour, perhaps. He'll need more rest than that, however."

"But that'll be normal sleep?" Hendricks hazarded a guess.

She nodded, sharply. 

"'What dreams may come'," he breathed.

"I will attend him," Gard said. 

Hendricks nodded, a jerk of his chin. He didn't particularly like it, but he could understand the necessity. Better for the boss to have a chance to get his thoughts about what had happened in order before he had to deal with facing who it had happened with. 

"You should rest as well," Gard added, not unkindly. 

He did feel tired, now that he thought about it. "I'll be next door," he agreed. 

When he woke the following morning, two hours later than usual, Hendricks found a note from Gard on his bedside table telling him that he had a half-day, with the excuse of a doctor's appointment as a cover. He wasn't surprised. He rolled out of bed, took a lazy shower and broke out one of his spare sets of clothes. 

He rolled into the office just before noon

"Oh, Mr. Hendricks! How nice to see you. I hope you are feeling better? We weren't expecting you until after lunch," the doorman greeted him. 

Normally, Hendricks said nothing. But in the face of such effusion, he allowed himself a small grunt of vague acknowledgement. 

It didn't escape his attention that people were watching him. That was normal enough, he knew. Mostly, they watched the boss, and since Hendricks was mostly with the boss, sometimes he got watched too. And when they were separated for whatever reason, yeah. People sometimes watched him like they watched the boss. This felt different somehow. More expectant. 

Like maybe nobody'd been buying the "Mr. Hendricks has a doctor's appointment" line, which could only mean the boss hadn't been selling it very well, which meant the boss was off his game, and yeah. Just as well he'd come in early. 

He made his way upstairs playing for the cheap seats like nothing was out of the ordinary. He'd made it into the main office before the hammer dropped. 

"Doctor's appointment, Hendricks?" Campioni drawled loudly, as Hendricks crossed the room. "Hemorrhoids flare up?"

There were a couple of sniggers, too soft to pin point even if Hendricks hadn't been taken by surprise. He wasn't cool, not like Jo -- the boss -- not under this kind of pressure. Hell, it was more than half of why he'd taken to saying nothing. Harder to give something way that way. Impossible for anyone to know if he was saying nothing, or if there was just nothing to say. 

Even cocky young button men didn't usually address him, let alone insult him, but people could surprise you, especially with their capacity for stupidity. But as he dropped his stuff on the corner desk, something made him wonder if this was less a macho game of one-upmanship and more a fishing expedition. He smiled, like the boss did sometimes, all teeth, and didn't stint on the eye contact. "Prostate check, Campioni," he said. "But hey. This life? You probably won't live long enough to worry about it, right?"

The ensuing silence was gratifying, but nothing compared to the realization that Gard had caught the tail end of that by play, and was smirking. She beckoned him into the boardroom. 

He slipped in behind her. If he hadn't been watching for it, he wouldn't have seen how the line of boss' shoulders tightened when he entered the room. Hendricks wondered who else had been watching. His eyes swept the room. The boss covered well. It was hard to tell he was off his game, but you could, if you knew what to look for, and there were far too many eyes looking. Remotely, Hendricks triggered a fire alarm. 

It was a good day for it. Standing in snow to the knees and waiting for the fire department to give their okay to anyone going back inside made everyone very amenable to Gard's suggestion to reschedule the meeting for the following week. Hendricks carefully catalogued the departing guests' levels of annoyance at the disruption, but nobody stood out as suspicious. The boss scrubbed his face with a hand, like he was tired. 

It made Hendricks want to shove him into a car and get him to a safe house, but Hendricks just growled instead. Startled, the boss dropped his hand and managed to look more alert. 

"You could take an early lunch, Mr. Hendricks," the boss said diffidently as he pretended to watch the fire trucks. 

"Already ate," Hendricks said. It wasn't even a lie. He'd managed a sandwich before heading in to work. Eating it in the empty house wondering how weird work was going to be had turned out to be way weirder than the workday had so far, Campioni included. All the work stuff had fallen under the general heading of: _keep the boss from getting killed, stay alive_ , when you got right down to it. 

So when they fire department gave the all-clear, Hendricks followed the boss right into his office like it was any other day. 

If they didn't speak a word to each other in all the hours they both sat there, well. Only Gard could have guessed. 

The trio made their way out of the building, and Hendricks already knew he and Jo -- _the boss, dammit_ , were going to have an argument in the back of the car. That was okay. Hendricks had had plenty of time to marshal his case.

Of course, that was when Harry Dresden turned up, gray cloak billowing in the November wind, and standing with his electronics-damaging person far too close limos' engine. 

"Mr. Dresden," the boss said, voice sharper than it usually was when dealing with the mad pyromaniac. 

"Warden Dresden," Dresden corrected automatically, contrary down to this chromosomes. 

"Warden Dresden," the boss acknowledged tightly. "I take it this is official business?"

Dresden held a large envelope, up and away from himself. Hendricks stepped forward to take it, glad of the gloves he was wearing. 

"You walking funny, Cujo?" Dresden asked, voice ever-mocking. 

Hendricks grunted, but he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _That_ , he'd notice. 

The boss' voice turned to velvet in an instant. "I slipped on the sidewalk outside of my house last night. Mr. Hendricks was kind enough to break my fall."

Dresden blinked, plainly nonplussed. 

"If that is all, Warden Dresden?" the boss said, like he couldn't decided whether he'd prefer to deal with whatever new nuttiness Dresden was waiting to spring on Chicago or the argument they'd both been planning for in the oppressive silence of the office. 

Well, Hendricks at least was unequivocally grateful when the wizard nodded, and wandered off, hollering "Don't forget to RSVP!" as he walked away. 

"Stay classy, Dresden," Hendricks muttered to himself, pulling open the limo door for the boss as a cover, catching a repressed smile on the boss' face as he did. 

Hendricks dropped the invitation on the seat as he slid in. He'd let Gard have a closer look at it before they risked opening it. 

"Mr. Hendricks," the boss said, not meeting his eyes, "there is no need for you to accompany me. I appreciate what you did last night. More than enough that I can spare you some time to -- " 

Hendricks was surprised at that, but maybe he shouldn't have been. He wouldn't know what the hell to say either if the situation was reversed. "Don't need no time, boss," Hendricks said in his best tired-bruiser voice. 

"You should take the night off," the boss said, reflex-fast.

"Na," Hendricks said. "We never did get to going over the figures for today's meetin' last night. Might as well do 'em now." 

There was a long pause before the boss tried again. "Nathan," he said quietly.

Hendricks idly looked out the window to make it less important that the boss wouldn't look at him. "Yeah, Johnny?"

"You don't have to do this. I don't expect you to do this." His voice was terrible, quiet, and on the verge of tears Hendricks hadn't seen in years. 

It wasn't that Hendricks didn't trust Gard. He did. But he was glad she was driving. "Been a long day, Johnny. Gonna close my eyes for a few minutes. We can talk at the house." 

He'd expected friction there. The boss didn't want him at the house, he knew. Hadn't wanted him to get into the car, but hadn't wanted to cause a scene at the office. Apparently wasn't up to causing a scene now, which was just not like Johnny. 

They didn't talk again until they arrived at the mansion. "You don't have to do this, Nathan," Johnny said as he climbed out of the car.

"I think we do, Johnny," Hendricks returned quietly as he followed him. 

Gard took the envelope and disappeared in the direction of her workshop. 

Hendricks followed Johnny to the kitchen. They drank their first beer in silence, though Hendricks wouldn't have called it companionable. 

"I'm not doing this sober," Johnny said as he started on his second one. 

"I can see that," Hendricks said, but lightly, because Jesus, he could understand the need for anesthetic, and it wasn't like they had a whole lot of options. Gamely, he grabbed himself another beer from the fridge, and nursed it quietly. 

"The thing with the knife," Johnny -- blurted, truthfully, finally. "I've never done that. I would never do that. I'm sorry -- "

"I know," Hendricks said gently. "I know that Johnny. None of what happened was your fault."

"Nathan," Johnny growled, and got himself a third beer.

"It wasn't," Hendricks said after a minute. 

Johnny upended the beer, and pulled another two from the fridge without another word. 

It took Hendricks a second to realize that neither can was for him. "Jesus, Johnny. Take it easy. You'll be puking til Friday."

Johnny snorted, and Hendricks got it after a second. This thing already had Johnny on the verge of vomiting. 

"How much of it do you remember?" Hendricks asked.

"Most of it," Johnny said. "You talking to Gard. The thing with the knife. Talking to you. Asking you to -- uh. The very end. I don't remember how we got the bedroom, or most of the, ah, act itself." This speech was followed by several fortifying gulps of beer. 

"It wasn't terrible, Johnny. I mean. I'm not going be looking for a gay sex buddy any time soon, but that's no reason you can't look me in the eye, man." 

Oh, and John Marcone met his eyes then all right. Careful what you wish for. "It wasn't terrible? Nathan. I. Raped. You." His voice carried all the terrible desolation his eyes held.

"No, Johnny, you didn't," Hendricks said, as gently as he could, in turn. "Point of fact, you got a much better argument that I raped you. _I_ wasn't drugged out of my mind on some fairy curse." Hendricks paused, and Johnny put down his beer can without taking another sip. 

"That's bullshit," and all trace of Johnny's cultivated accent was gone, now. "And you know it. You did it because otherwise I'd die, and because you knew I'd want to live." 

"No, Johnny," Hendricks said. "I did it because I wanted you to live. If I'd really thought you'd rather die… not sure I would have picked different. Like I said last night, man: I'm sorry about that, Johnny."

"You didn't rape me, Mr. Hendricks," Johnny said, going for a growl now. "You couldn't."

Hendricks shrugged. "What, you wanna tell me you've been secretly ogling my ugly mug all this time? Not buying, Johnny." 

"Mr. Hendricks," and oh yeah, Johnny was getting mad now. "The very idea that I would importune a man of your caliber and friend of long standing besides -- " and Johnny cut himself off, looking awful, because that's just what he'd done.

Just not willingly. 

"It was rape, Johnny," Hendricks said, voice quiet and even. "And when we get the guys that did this, I won't say a thing about what you do to them." 

The remainder of the fourth beer hit the wall; Hendricks stuck the fifth back in the fridge, and fixed sandwiches. Johnny ate in silence, but the deep thinking kind, so Hendricks didn't bother distracting him. 

"I'll be in my office if you need me," Johnny said as he stood. 

Hendricks nodded companionably, and, once Johnny left, cleaned down the kitchen like they'd done a job there. 

Gard came up later, and Hendricks sprung for another round of sandwich making. The invitation was just an invitation, and appeared to be entirely disconnected from their mystery, but that's about what Hendricks had expected. It wasn't Dresden's style, though it wouldn't have been the first time he'd been duped, had it come to that. 

"I've had a bit more luck with the dart," Gard said cautiously. "There are traces of three distinct mortals on it: Mr. Marcone; a second non-mage mortal, and a mortal practitioner. I suspect the sniper was not the mage, but there's no way to know for sure until we find them." Idly, she licked her fingers.

"Campioni," Hendricks said. "Just a feelin'. But I think he knows somethin'." 

"Have you told Mr. Marcone?" Gard asked. 

He shrugged. "No time like the present."

Sometimes Hendricks hated being right. Yeah, Campioni'd been involved. No, Campioni wasn't going to live long enough to worry about prostate checks. Campioni wasn't going to live long enough to worry about tomorrow. 

Mostly, the boss kept his crazy under wraps real well. Kept the beat downs and the mess to a minimum. Reigned himself in every bit as much as he reigned in his underlings. But occasionally, an example had to be made. And the boss did not have qualms about making it. 

Campioni. Well. That would have to be the excuse, that an example had to be made, though Hendricks wasn't clear on what exactly they'd say he'd done. But that was tomorrow's problem. 

A nod from the boss that Hendricks suspected was entirely reflex, and Hendricks pulled the hood from Campioni's head, and stepped back. Campioni caught his eye and sneered. To bad that wouldn't be enough to get him shot today. "Should have guessed you'd like it. Had you been wanting t -- "

The boss' fist slammed into Campioni's face with enough fury that hell, _Hendricks_ flinched. 

"It was alright," Hendricks surprised himself by answering. Wasn't like Campioni'd be repeating the conversation, except maybe in Hell. The boss was looking at him like he'd gone insane, which was a bit rich coming from a man with castration at the forefront of his mind. Hendricks shrugged. "What, were you hoping Johnny come on to me and I'd kill him in a fit of homophobic panic? That your grand plan?"

"Didn't care how he ended up dead. Just that he did." This was said sullenly, though a few less teeth. 

"You assumed I'd prefer death," the boss said, voice like silk. "No," he added, after a pause, and flicked open a knife. 

It was a stupid plot, it turned out. Campioni's death took more effort than derailing his plans had done. The mage got lucky, and a sniper round to back of the skull. When the confirmation call came in, Hendricks was only too happy to have something else to focus on for a few seconds. 

There were days when Johnny put Hendricks in mind of nothing so much as a cat. It didn't help that Hendricks wasn't sure this wasn't Johnny's version of leaving presents on the doorstep. 

Finally, the boss was done -- or Campioni's mortal shell was, and the boss had to throw in the towel. The boss inhaled once, deep and sharp, and then stripped out the bloody clothes he wore. Hendricks bundled them blandly while the boss dressed. 

He placed the call to the cleaners as the boss strode toward the car. 

By the time he was on his own way back to the office, it was nearly lunchtime, and he was frankly bored of sandwiches, so he stopped by a bakery. If it was one the boss rarely allowed himself to visit, well. It'd been a long few days, right? Got something for Gard, too, and wished once more he had her metabolism. 

"Donuts, Mr. Hendricks, really?" the boss asked when he saw the bags. "Are we expecting law enforcement already?"

"Yeah, yeah. 'We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits. Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots?'" Hendricks snorted. "Live a little boss. A couple zeppole are not gonna kill you." Hendricks dropped the bag on the desk, and pretended not to see the boss losing his resolve in the face of such temptation, turning instead, eyes to heaven, to give Gard her bag.

Gard took it with polite thanks and gleaming eyes, but she managed not to laugh. 

There was a small sigh behind him. "Very well, Mr. Hendricks. Perhaps you have a point," the boss acknowledged graciously, over the sound of paper rustling.

As Hendricks sat as he desk, he noticed the slim volume of poetry lying on top of his schoolbooks. He was pretty sure he hadn't unpacked it; he hadn't used it in a couple of days. He was right, too, he realized, when he caught sight of the elegant bookmark peeking out of the top. He didn't own such a thing. Hell, his books currently had flags all over them, little bits of paper. If he started sticking bookmarks in, they'd never close. Okay. So Jo -- the boss -- was up to something. Fair enough. The boss was always up to something, but he usually left Hendricks' books alone. 

Hendricks caved with a sigh and flipped open the book to the marked page. The Undertaking. Hendricks smiled. _Sentimental bastard_.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A Midsummer Night's Dream, which Hendricks also references twice in the story: "my heart / Is true as steel", Helena's description of the strength of her unswerving love for Demetrius -- and what better to defeat a fairy curse? The other two references are: "Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound" and "Masters, spread yourselves" (this last, Hendricks is very much taking out of context).
> 
> "What is done out of love takes place beyond good and evil" is a paraphrase of the Friedrich Nietzsche quote usually translated as "What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil."
> 
> "What dreams may come" is from Hamlet's "To Be" soliloquy. (Also not used precisely in context.)
> 
> "We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits" is from Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market.
> 
> The veil of ignorance is from John Rawls, _A Theory of Justice_.
> 
> And the reference to Sicilians and death is, of course, from _The Princess Bride_.
> 
> Finally, The Undertaking is a poem by John Donne, about love and keeping secrets.


End file.
